Fertile Ground (2 page)

Approaching her Honda Civic, she groped inside her purse for her keys and touched the edge of the card the producer had given her. She shook her head, smiling, and bent down to insert her key into the car lock. Dennis would laugh when she told him about the Julia Roberts comment. “You’re my pretty woman,” he’d say. Then he’d lean over and kiss her. God, she loved him.

The sharp blow at the back of her neck—swift, sudden—slammed her forehead into the metal of the car. She moaned and slid like a rag doll to the ground, her knees thudding against the concrete. Fear knifed through her. Dazed, her hands trembling, she jerked her backpack off her shoulder and thrust it away from her. Take whatever you want!” she whispered, keeping her eyes tightly sealed. She didn’t want to see her assailant, didn’t want to be able to identify anyone.

She heard a popping sound, felt a stinging sensation in the hollow of her neck, then searing, exploding pain.

“These are the arm buds. This is the spine.” Dr. Lisa Brockman barely moved the ultrasound transducer over the lower abdomen of the thirty-eight year-old woman lying on the table to her right. “And over here, Diane, is your baby’s heart.” She pointed to the tiny, pulsating embryonic organ at the upper center of the funnel-shaped image on the small gray ultrasound monitor. “Can you see it?”

The woman squinted. “I don’t—Oh, my God!” She was beaming now. “Oh, my God!” she whispered, turning toward her husband and grasping his hand. “Hank, can you see it? Can you?” Her voice was breathless, hushed.

He nodded and tightened his grip on his wife’s hand;

they stared at the slowly shifting peanut-shaped image on the gray screen. He was a large, burly man with a brusque manner, but his eyes were moist, just as they were the day Lisa had informed the anxious couple that after six years of treatments, including one unsuccessful in vitro fertilization, Diane had conceived.

“Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?” Hank asked, his fingers still linked with his wife’s. “We’ve decided we want to know.”

“Not yet. The internal sex organs are defined at twelve

to fourteen weeks, but the genitalia aren’t visible until the middle of the fourth month. So we’ll all be in suspense for some time.”

She smiled and waited a moment, giving the couple time to study the monitor. Then she wiped the conductive gel off Diane’s bared middle and pulled down her pale mauve examining gown. “After you’re dressed, Diane, come into my office.”

She pressed a button on the monitor. Seconds later she handed Diane two gray, three-by-four-inch prints of the ultrasound images. “Here you are—your baby’s first portrait.” Lisa smiled again, but the Clermans had turned their attention to the prints. They didn’t even notice when she opened the door to leave.

She wanted to stay—she loved witnessing the awe, the intense joy, knowing she’d helped bring it about. The excitement never staled. But Diane and Hank were entitled to enjoy the moment in private, especially since for them, the complex process of conceiving had been anything but private.

Exiting the darkened room. Lisa blinked at the bright hallway light and walked to her office. At her oak desk she adjusted her tortoise banana clip to recapture several strands of shoulder-length, streaked honey-blond hair that were always escaping, and began writing on Diane’s chart. When her intercom buzzed, she picked up the receiver and continued writing.

“I know, Selena,” she said quickly. “I’m running late.” The forty-five-year-old office manager took pride in running the clinic with promptness and efficiency, and Lisa’s life with a maternal concern that was endearing and sometimes amusing. Lisa was usually prompt, too, but her nurse, Ava, had just left on a two-week vacation. Lisa was counting the days until her return. “Tell the Hoffmans I’ll be there shortly.”

“It’s not the Hoffmans,” Selena whispered. “It’s a detective. He wants to talk to Dr. Gordon. I explained he’s doing a procedure. So are Dr. Davidson and Dr. Cantrell. So I thought you should talk to him.”

Five times over the past two months the billing DEpartment had reported large sums of cash missing from the clinic safe. “Is this about the stolen money?” Lisa asked, putting down her pen.

“He wouldn’t say. He looks grim, though.” “Okay. Give me five minutes.” She wanted to talk with the Clermans before they left. “And please tell Naomi Hoffman I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The Clermans, still euphoric, had many questions (they were entitled. Lisa thought defensively as she noted the minute hand on her desk clock moving inexorably forward), and more than ten minutes elapsed before she asked Selena to usher in the detective, who introduced himself as John Barone.

Barone was over six feet tall and movie-star handsome:

burnished, caramel-colored skin; a chiseled nose and strong chin; high cheekbones. He had broad shoulders, a lean physique, and close-cropped, dark brown hair, all of which gave him a military air. Lisa thought. She had stood when he entered her office. Now she shook his large, firm hand across the multicolored folders stacked on her desk.

“How can I help you?” she asked when they were both seated. Selena was right—his eyes were pleasant, but his lips, tented by a trim brown mustache with more than a hint of gray, formed a serious line. She smiled and hoped this wouldn’t take long; she hated keeping patients waiting.

“Do you know a Chelsea Wright?” He spoke in a low, melodic voice with an exotic cadence.

So it wasn’t about the stolen cash. Lisa considered, then shook her head. “Is she a patient here?” She tried to place the detective’s accent. Jamaican?

“I was HOping you could tell me.” From an inside pocket of his camel jacket, he removed a three-by-five color photo and handed it to Lisa.

It was a high school graduation picture with a swirly blue background. The chestnut-brown-haired, brown-eyed girl in the photo was pretty and had an engaging, ingenuous smile. She’d positioned her burgundy cap low over her forehead—the way you’re supposed to. Lisa thought,

remembering with nostalgia her own graduation thirteen years ago from an all-girls’ Orthodox Jewish high school in Brooklyn; she and her classmates had set their hunter green caps at the backs of their heads and secured them with tens of bobby pins, so as not to disturb their teased, lacquered, ladder-high bangs. She shook her head again and was about to return the photo to the detective, who was watching her intently. Something about the girl’s heart-shaped face caught her eye. “I may have seen her in the waiting room a few weeks ago. The young woman I saw looked older, though.”

Barone nodded. “This photo was taken a year ago, so she may have looked different. Did you speak with her?” He leaned closer.

She heard the heightened interest in his voice, saw disappointment in his deep brown eyes when she said, “No.” She concentrated, picturing the young woman in the waiting room. “I noticed her because she looked about twenty—that’s younger than most of our patients. And she was fidgety, pacing back and forth. Then again, many of the women who come here are tense. Is Miss Wright in trouble?” she asked, wondering how much longer the detective would stay and whether she should have someone else see Naomi Hoffman, who was eight months pregnant with twins.

“She was murdered two days ago.”

Lisa flinched. “My God!” she whispered. She glanced at the photo again—the girl was so young!—then at the detective, who was slouching in his chair, as if he’d been deflated by the news he’d imparted. The small, square room, warmed by the afternoon May sunlight streaming through the partially opened gray miniblinds, was heavy with silence. She gazed at the swirling dust motes caught by the light’s diagonal rays and wondered what she could possibly say.

“The clinic’s name was written in Miss Wright’s daily planner,” Barone said. “Next to it was “Dr. G.” Would that be Dr. Matthew Gordon? I understand he’s the head director of the clinic and one of the founders.”

And my fiance. Lisa added silently. “It could be Dr. Gordon.” Suddenly she was wary, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Any other doctors here whose last names start with G? Or first names?”

Wondering whether he used the same pleasant, unhurried tone in his interrogations to catch suspects off guard, she did a mental check of the clinic staff, then said, “No,” and picked up the receiver, surprised to note that her hand was shaking. “I’ll see if Dr. Gordon’s available now.”

“Thank you.” He rose from his chair and crossed the room to the wall where her framed diplomas hung.

Lisa punched Matthew’s extension and spoke to his nurse. “Yes, Grace, it’s urgent,” she said, trying not to sound impatient. While she waited for Matthew to come on the line, she watched the detective, who had moved from the diplomas and was studying a multicolored fertility treatment chart on an adjacent wall. He spent only a second in front of another chart detailing the female anatomy, then returned to his seat. Most men. Lisa had found, took pleasure in observing unclothed women but were uncomfortable seeing what lay beneath their skin.

A moment later she was relieved to hear Matthew’s voice. She spoke in an undertone, explaining quickly why Detective Barone, whose eyes were again on her, had come. She felt ill at ease having to deal with this by herself, because she had nothing to tell the detective, who probably assumed from her nervousness that she was withholding information.

In medical school she’d dissected countless cadavers, and during her emergency room rotation she’d seen patients die of gunshots and stabbings and heart attacks and drug overdoses. But this was a prestigious fertility clinic in Westwood, not a morgue or an emergency room where mortality was a frequent, violent intruder. She stole another glance at Chelsea Wright’s photo and thought about the ultrasound prints and the tiny life she’d watched minutes ago, beating insistently on the screen. She didn’t know Chelsea but felt like crying.

She buzzed Selena and reluctantly asked her to have someone check on Naomi Hoffman. Then she replaced the receiver. She was anxious about how she would fill the silence until Matthew arrived, but in another minute he was there, striding into the room with the confidence and energy that had attracted Lisa to him during her first interview fourteen months ago. From the pained expression in his marine-blue eyes and the hard set of his jaw, she could see his agitation.

Barone stood, and the two men shook hands. At five feet eleven inches, Matthew was almost as tall as the detective, who had a more solid build. Lisa moved from behind her desk and handed the photo to Matthew. He glanced at it quickly.

“That’s her.” He sounded angry. “God, how could this have happened?” He tossed the photo on Lisa’s desk and slumped down onto a chair, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pale gray medical jacket.

Lisa wanted to put a comforting hand on his arm. Instead, she leaned against her desk and returned her attention to the detective, who had taken the seat next to Matthew and was opening a small black notebook that he’d removed from his jacket pocket.

“Was she your patient. Dr. Gordon?” he asked.

“I can’t believe Chelsea’s dead.”” Matthew shook his head, then sighed and looked up. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Barone patiently repeated the question.

“Chelsea was an egg donor. Which reminds me—” He got up suddenly, said, “Excuse me a minute, please,” and picked up Lisa’s phone receiver.

“What’s an egg donor?” the detective asked, turning his attention to Lisa as Matthew spoke quietly into the phone.

She could hear Matthew talking to Grace, giving instructions. “For one of the assisted-reproduction procedures we do here, IVF—in vitro fertilization—a woman’s eggs are harvested—retrieved,” she explained when she saw Barone’s quizzical expression. “Then they’re fertilized

in vitro with the partner’s sperm. The fertilized embryo is then transferred into the woman’s uterus. Sometimes—”

“What does ‘in vitro’ mean?” Barone interrupted.

“Literally, it means ‘in a glass.” We use petri dishes.” She supposed he was trying to put her at ease or fill the time until Matthew finished his call. “Sometimes we aren’t successful in harvesting eggs from the patient, so donor eggs are necessary. Also, with women in their late thirties or forties whose eggs aren’t as viable as we’d like, we use younger eggs to increase the chances of conception.”

“Like Chelsea Wright’s.” Barone nodded. “But why would she do it? What’s in it for the donor?”

“Often she’s a friend or family member. Other women donate anonymously to help infertile couples.”

“Really?” He sounded impressed.

“Yes.” Lisa hesitated, then added, “The anonymous donors are paid. I don’t know which type of donor Chelsea was.”

Barone said, “It’s nice that nobility gets rewarded, isn’t it?” and Lisa couldn’t tell from his tone whether or not he was being sarcastic. She assumed he was. She watched as he wrote Chelsea’s name on his pad, followed by a dollar sign, then a question mark.

“So who pays the egg donor fee?” he asked.

“The recipient. The clinic issues the check. She also pays the donor’s medical expenses.” Lisa inched to her right to make room for Matthew, who had hung up the phone and was frowning.

“Sorry about that. Detective,” he said, moving next to Lisa. “Last minute post-op instructions for a patient who’s receiving donor eggs.” He ran both hands through his thick, sandy brown hair. “I’m still reeling. You’re sure it’s Chelsea? Could there be some mistake?”

“Unfortunately, no. Her parents made a positive identification. She was their only child, too.”

Lisa shut her eyes. She couldn’t begin to imagine their anguish, their horror. She heard Matthew whisper, “Christ, how awful!” and tried not to picture Chelsea’s blank-faced parents standing in a morgue, watching a

stranger peel back the white sheet that covered their lifeless daughter. Lisa had spoken to her own parents yesterday; she would phone them again tonight.

“Do you have any idea who killed her?” Matthew leaned against the desk. “Any leads?”

“Nothing definite. Was Miss Wright a paid donor?”

“Yes, she was.” There was curiosity in his voice.

“How much does an egg donor receive?” Barone asked, crossing out the question mark.